"Inglourious Basterds"

Last week I finally got around to seeing Mr. Tarantino's latest offering, on Blu-ray.

I missed seeing "Inglourious Basterds" during its theatrical run, not because I couldn't find time, but rather, because I didn't want to find time. I pre-judged the film, and as it turns out, my worst fears were confirmed.

For two hours and fifteen, it's a static gab-fest interspersed with fleeting, kinetic fits of ultra-violence.

The first conflab is mildly interesting, only because Nazis don't visit farms in rural France without a good reason, but it's the only conversation in the film with a reason for being, that actually leads to something, well, cinematic, and not another conversation.

But Tarantino comes frustratingly close to atoning for the verbiage and white noise with a riotously insane finale that's pure cinema, and a pure joy to behold.

I must admit, I've never understood the Tarantino idolatry. Yes, he's got a good ear for dialogue and is up there with Scorsese as one of the great filmmaking re-gifters of all time. But is that enough? I enjoyed the audacity of "Pulp Fiction", the tenderness of "Jackie Brown", the sardonic wryness of "Death Proof" and the wild abandon of his scripts for "Natural Born Killers" and "True Romance". But that's about it. I appreciated the stronger aspects of "Reservoir Dogs" and the "Kill Bill" two-parter, but I would classify those films as interesting failures.

"Inglourious Basterds" is, I'm afraid, another one of Tarantino's interesting failures.